The Ones You Come Home To
by tider58
Summary: Stanford isn't THAT far away... (It's a sisfic, in my CallieVerse. She is 11 here, and a little bit wayward. Aren't we all?)
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to my story! It's a sisfic. If that's not your bag, I guess I just lost you. Have a nice day anyway. For those of you who met Callie Winchester in my multi-chapter story "A Simple Kind of Life," I hope you'll enjoy this two(?)-shot (I just typed "shit" by mistake and truly hope that's not a hint at things to come). That story explores the whys and wherefores of Callie, who she is and how she came onto the scene. This one won't explain those things, so, briefly: John fathered a baby girl with a hunter who died when the baby was 4 months old. Dean was 13 and Sam was 9, and John being John, they kind of had to step up and be more than just garden-variety brothers to Callie. I like to explore relationships, especially the sibling kind. That's my favorite aspect of the show, and now that I've dipped a toe into SPN fanfiction, that's become my favorite thing to read and write about. If you would please leave some feedback, I would very much appreciate it. I am kind of easily distracted by shiny things and random objects, I tend to get too little sleep, and I just got a puppy … so if I don't get reviews, it's entirely possible that I will just completely forget I started this thing! Also, I'm an editor, and I'm nitpicky about everything I read during the day. But come nighttime, when I do my writing-for-fun, anything goes. Forgive any mistakes and know that I (probably) know better. Carry on…**

* * *

I shifted the strap of my duffel bag to my other shoulder. It was heavier than it should have been, considering I didn't own that much stuff, and of the stuff I did own, I had only packed the essentials. I had wanted to get as far gone as possible before they noticed that I'd taken my belongings. If they thought I'd just gone for a walk or something, they wouldn't start tracking me until later, when I didn't come back. If, however, they found that I hadn't left empty-handed, they'd hit the road immediately and probably find me before I could get where I was headed.

Stanford, that's where I was headed. To my brother. To Sam.

I hadn't laid eyes on him in two years. I'd been nine when he left, and my last visual memory of him was his back as he walked away, blurred through my tears as I sobbed in Dean's arms—safe but restraining, because he knew I would have bolted after Sam and clung to him like a desperate puppy, and things were already hard enough.

He'd kept in touch with me and Dean during those two years by phone, after a fairly long period of zero contact. I guess he didn't want us to try to talk him into coming back, which I totally would have, pulling out all the stops, shamelessly and without a speck of pity. Begging, guilt tripping, threatening, whatever it took. It was fair game, I felt, after he'd abandoned us. Dean took a different approach once he was finally able to speak to Sam without being a jerk. He acted like everything was just fine, bluff and breezy and casual and _so not what he was really feeling._ Dean had trouble being hurt. Anger he could do, but hurt? It was unfamiliar and unwelcome. Sam hadn't spoken to Daddy, though, not since that horrible night, the fight that had sent him packing. I couldn't blame him.

Daddy was pretty much what had pushed me out the door, too. Sam would get it. He would take me in, at least for a few days, give me a break from the other two Winchester men before I had to go back and face the music. (That music was bound to be loud and painful, but I'd weighed the pros and cons and seeking sanctuary with Sammy had won out.)

The Winchester name was not wasted on me. I'd managed the bus ride with no trouble (I'd actually been in such a snit when I left that I'd briefly contemplated hitch-hiking, but the consequences of _that_ weren't worth the risk, and I'm not even talking about possibly being picked up by a child molester or murderer, but what my dad and brothers would do if they found out I'd done something so stupid). I'd asked for and received kid-friendly directions from a fairly-not-possessed-looking lady at the bus station, and I'd walked the nearly three miles to Sam's apartment by myself. Best part? No black '67 Impala had pulled up alongside me as I trudged along with my ever-heavier bag and expelled two furious men who had driven all this way with the exclusive purpose of killing me.

Yeah, yeah, I've been told I exaggerate. But trust me, there's no such thing as exaggeration when it comes to angry Winchesters, and what sets Dean off is worry (check) and what sets Daddy off is (among many other things) wasted time and disobedience (double check).

It took a while and my shoulder ached from the duffel straps, but at last Sam's building loomed in front of me. It was dark by now, and as I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the squares of orange light shining through apartment windows, my courage and sense of righteous purpose were sort of wilting.

My stomach was in knots as I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket. I'd made sure to turn the GPS off because DUH. I flipped it open—it wasn't a cool phone, just a functional one, just for emergencies—and started to press the Sam speed-dial combo.

And then I heard him.

His voice was one of several mingled together, but it stood out to me like a spotlight at midnight. I would've been able to pick it out of a crowd of hundreds, thousands. The people heading toward me were about a block away, chatting and laughing casually together, two girls (one brunette, one blonde) and two guys (one of them, the tallest one, my Sammy). Sudden panic gripped me and I stepped off the sidewalk and ducked down between two cars parallel parked at the curb. I held my breath as their voices came closer.

"You sure you don't want to come up and hang for a while?" a girl's voice asked.

"Aw, sorry, Jess, really shouldn't," answered the other girl. "I have bio at eight and I haven't even cracked the book for the exam. Mark, you driving me home?"

"You live two blocks away," a male voice complained teasingly. "This is why you don't wear six-inch stilettos to Thirsty Thursday."

My heart pounded. They were awfully close now, and I could hear keys jingling.

"Fine, I gotcha. Later, Jess. Winchester, I guess you won't be skipping class in the morning, huh?"

"You never know, Mark."

"Right. The day you cut a class is the day—whoa. Hello?"

 _Dammit_. Two pairs of shoes—red heels and beat-up Converse—stopped directly in front of me. It's all I could see of them from my crouching position between the cars.

"What's up?" Sam's voice asked his friends from a little farther away.

"There's a kid. What are you doing down there, kid?"

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip, contemplating making a run for it. This is _not_ how I had planned to see my brother again after two long years. I didn't know why I had decided to hide in the first place, but now that I'd been discovered I was pretty sure I'd never been so mortified in my eleven years.

I started scooting backwards out from between the cars and toward the street. Then I shoved myself up from my squatting position and turned to run, muttering a "sorry" as I darted blindly into the street. If I could keep my face hidden maybe Sam wouldn't have a chance to even—

 _ **BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!**_

A car horn blared as a souped-up Honda swerved around me, coming so close the wind blew my hair away from my face. I screamed. And then I was caught by the arm.

"Are you okay?" the guy they'd called Mark asked me, his eyes wide. Next to him, the brunette in the heels was looking just as shocked as I felt.

I didn't answer; didn't feel like I could form words. I pulled my arm out of Mark's hold and nodded, not daring to look as Sam and the blonde girl started toward us. "I'm fine, I gotta go!" I said in a panicky voice.

And maybe that thing I said about knowing Sam's voice in a crowd of thousands was true for him, too. Because he hadn't even gotten a decent look at me yet when my name rang out, his tone stunned and questioning. " _Callie?_ "

I didn't actually decide to run, but my feet must have. The street blurred under them as I fled away from the group of college students standing on the curb. Well, apparently not _all_ of them were still standing there after I started my sprint, since about five seconds later a pair of rock-solid arms caught me around the waist and lifted me in the air to halt my progress. I felt myself being swung around in a half-circle before my feet met solid ground again. And I looked up into the disbelieving eyes of my big brother Sam.

* * *

Sam's girlfriend's name was Jessica. She seemed nice enough, but I wasn't sorry when she excused herself to the bedroom (they shared a bedroom! I made a mental note) to study. I think it was actually an excuse to give us some time to talk. I hadn't yet answered a direct question, and he had peppered me with them all the way up from the street to their apartment.

"How did you get here?"

"Are you okay?"

"Why did you run?"

"Do Dad and Dean know you're here?"

As soon as the door shut behind Jessica, Sam did what I'd been hoping he'd do since coming face to face with him down there in the middle of that embarrassing scene. He pulled me into a tight embrace. He was so tall—even taller than he'd been two years ago, and that was saying something because he was tall then, and I had been much shorter—my head only came to his midsection. He rested one of his huge hands on the back of my head and it was all so comfortable and so familiar and so missed that I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.

The hug lasted a long time, and I think he was as reluctant to let go as I was to be let go. Finally he stepped away, holding me by the shoulders and bending down slightly to make direct eye contact.

"Callie, you have to give me something to go on here," he said. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head and fear instantly flooded his eyes. "What do you mean no? Are you hurt? Are Dad and Dean—Callie, _please_ , answer me."

"They're probably not looking for me yet," I said in a small voice. "You'd probably be the first person they'd call if they knew I was gone."

"What? Why did you leave, Callie?"

 _You did,_ I thought but did not say. I shrugged instead.

Annoyance flashed on his face. "That's not an answer. They don't know you're gone? When did you leave? Oh, God, Cal, I gotta call Dean."

"No!"

I grabbed his wrist as his phone came out of his pocket. He looked at me questioningly. "Cal, I have to! He's going to freak out when he realizes you're not there, he's gonna—"

"Sammy, _please_."

He plucked my hand from his wrist and walked me over to the couch, sitting down and pulling me down next to him. "What. Is going. On."

"I hate living with them!" I blurted. "Daddy is on my case all the time and he's mean to me even when he's not drinking, and Dean won't let me do anything or go anywhere and he's turned mean since you left, too, and he sides with Dad like he never did before and it's like I'm this burden all the time. I don't have any friends because I'm only in school a few weeks at a time and they won't let me live with Bobby for good and I just wanted to see you and get away from them." When I finished my little outburst I was breathless.

Sam studied me carefully for a few moments. But when he said my name, I knew I hadn't won my case. "Callie. I am happy to see you. You have no idea how happy I am to see you," he started, and this wasn't going in a good direction because there was a big BUT coming. "But" (see?) "Dean and Dad are going to be worried sick about you. I have to tell them you're here, so they'll know you're safe."

"But they'll come get me! I just want to stay with you for a little while. A few days."

"They will probably come get you, yeah. And they're going to be _really damn mad_ , Cal, you do know this wasn't the way to go about solving that part of your problem, right?"

"I don't care," I said, but my stomach clenched a little at the emphasis he put on how mad they'd be, even if I knew I had it coming.

"I will call, I will try to talk Dean into letting you stay with here for a couple of nights. But then you have to go back. You know that."

"You don't want me?"

"Callie, you know that's not the issue."

"I know."

Sam's phone buzzed and we both stared at it for a few moments. I looked at him pleadingly, and he looked back sympathetically, but he answered it despite my best puppy dog look (which I'd learned from him, after all). I chewed my lip as I listened to the one-sided conversation.

"Dean. Yeah, she's here. I was about to call you. About twenty minutes ago. Dude, I know, I said I was going to call you. As soon as she told me what was going on. She's fine. No, I'm not telling her that. Dean, listen, if you want to yell at her yourself, I can give her the phone; she's sitting right here."

At that, I cast a look of horrified betrayal at Sam, who shrugged and kept talking. "She wants to stay here for a couple of days and I told her she can. Look, it might help smooth things out. Everyone needs to calm down. I know. I know! Yes, Dean, I get it. She made a really dumb move, but if you come get her tonight it's just going to…"

Sam broke off, then shot a glare at his phone. "Jerk hung up on me."

"What did he say?" I asked hopefully, even though I could tell from the angry buzz that had filled the spaces between Sam's words on the phone call that Dean was beyond pissed.

"Well," he said, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. He's on his way."

My shoulders slumped. I was _so_ dead.

* * *

 **Shall I continue?**


	2. Chapter 2

"He said he'll be here in twenty minutes; Dad and Dean were working a case that nearby?"

"It wasn't that close by bus, but with the way Dean drives … Anyway, I can't be here when he gets here," I stated firmly, slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder and heading toward the door to Sam's apartment.

"Whoa, hold on, Cal, that's not happening. Sit down."

"He's going to kill me," I pleaded. "Do you want to stand here and watch him kill me?"

"He's not going to kill you," Sam said reasonably. "But if you're not here when he gets here, he's going to kill _me_."

I frowned. "Well, then, nice knowing you, Sammy. I gotta go."

He laughed. _Laughed!_ Our older brother was twenty minutes away from turning Sam's nice little college apartment into a murder scene and he found humor in it. I glowered at him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, holding both hands up in surrender. "I realize this is not a funny situation but … I've missed you guys. Even this, even the fighting."

"Well I'm glad you're able to get all sentimental about your little sister ending up as a hood ornament for the Impala!" I cried. Sam bit the corner of his lip to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

Then something even more horrific than the thought of Dean's angry retribution occurred to me and my blood froze in my veins. "Did he say 'we'?" I asked in a near-whisper.

Sam raised an eyebrow at me questioningly.

"Dean. Did Dean say 'I will be there in twenty minutes,' or did he say 'WE will be there in twenty minutes'?"

Understanding dawned on my brother's face. "He said 'I,'" he assured me comfortingly. "I'm pretty sure this is a solo mission."

We both knew that if Dad was coming with Dean, if he was putting aside his two years' worth of pent-up Sammy issues and coming here to haul my ass back with them, then I very likely wasn't exaggerating about my fate. Sure, Dean would yell, he would get loud and scary and his eyes would flash that shade of fury-green that he reserved exclusively for times when I'd not just crossed the line but stomped on it a few times for good measure. He might even get physical to drive his point home; a sharp shake of my shoulders, a cuff on the back of the head, even a swat or two to my butt. But Dad? Dad's anger was another thing entirely, and while I didn't think it could be strictly classified as abuse, I didn't like to think about those times he'd been really, really angry with me OR my brothers.

Sam's eyes were on me, seeming to read every thought that was rushing through my mind. He strode over and took my bag off my shoulder, then grasped my hand and towed me over to sit next to him on the couch. "So tell me something," he said. "If you knew this would end with you getting your butt handed to you, either by Dean or Dad or both of them … then why did you risk it?"

There was a long pause as I studied my fingernails and contemplated the question. Finally I met his sympathetic gaze. "I _miss_ you," I said simply.

Those three words seemed to hit him harder than anything else I might have said. I watched him draw in breath sharply, close his eyes briefly, as if I'd hurt him physically instead of just stating the abrasive honest truth. When he spoke his voice was gruffer than usual, and it seemed to me that his hazel eyes held a sheen that hadn't been there a few moments ago. I looked away. If he cried…

"Can you please let me go?" I asked again. "Just talk to Dean first without me and give him a chance to calm down?"

Sam paused, seeming to consider. "I think you need to face him, Callie, and I think you need to be ready to apologize and be honest."

I frowned. "But I'm _not_ sorry," I said. "I wanted to see you. I'd do it again. I _will_ do it again, if they take me back and try to keep me away from you."

For a moment, the corners of Sam's mouth tugged upward as if he were going to smile again. Then he seemed to catch himself and regain the upper hand on his emotions. "Little tip," he said. "Don't lead with that."

Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. I spent the time filling Sam in on things that he'd missed. There was so much! I found myself curled into the space between his side and his arm, which encircled my shoulders. It was pure comfort and pure _Sam_. It was all I had needed, his presence, his solidity, his empathy and peacefulness and support. He listened as I chatted, not interrupting, not waiting for me to finish, but _hearing_ me in a way no one had heard me in months … _years_. He laughed at the right times and asked questions that were relevant, not space fillers, and offered a few words of advice but not enough to make me think he was telling me what to do.

Too soon, there was a pounding on the door. My words and my heart both stopped midsentence and Sam and I looked at the door like we expected it to explode inward off its hinges. When it didn't, Sam started to get up. I tugged at his hand and he looked down at me, sympathetic but firm. "We can't ignore him," he said.

"Sammy? Open up!" came our brother's booming voice from the other side of the door.

When Sam gently extricated his hand from mine and crossed the living room in just a few strides, I slipped off the couch and tiptoe-ran into the tiny galley kitchen adjacent to the living room. Crouching down next to the stove, I held my breath. My death might be at hand, but this reunion between my brothers, my champions, my _world_ … _this_ I needed to hear.

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 **Argh, it's going to get longer than I originally intended. But something I've learned since I started writing fanfiction, um ... TWELVE FREAKING YEARS AGO ... is that you write what comes and you don't try to force it or the whole thing will dry up. This is what came tonight, and no more. But it helps keep the ideas in motion, and that's the best way to ensure an eventually completed story. And hopefully one that people like and I can be proud of. That's always my goal, as long as I'm keeping the characters in character. Because they don't belong to me, and I like to take extra-good care of things that I borrow for my own enjoyment. Please leave feedback. It is so much appreciated, you have no idea.**


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's kitchen floor was very clean. Like annoyingly clean. Like you could probably eat off the thing, and probably not swallow a single germ. It was hard not to notice as I sat in the far corner of it, cross-legged, chewing my nails and straining to make out the words that floated through the living room. I wondered if that was better, that Dean hadn't burst in shouting but instead was speaking in a tone low enough that I couldn't quite decipher actual sentences, but then I remembered that quiet anger was often the most dangerous kind.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I scooted on my butt to the doorway of the tiny kitchen and leaned my ear toward the voices. There. That was better. Or worse, depending on your point of view.

"…tell you how she got here?"

"She took a bus."

"And walked from the station? That's like three miles away!"

"I know."

"Well Jesus, Sam, what did you do when she got here? Give her cookies and a pat on the head?"

A sigh from Sam. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're doing what you've always done, being the good brother, the nice brother, the one who sets no limits and enforces no rules and makes life all rainbows and ice cream and puppy dogs. Which means I get to be the asshole, every single damn time. Did it ever occur to you that I get sick of being the asshole?"

"Dean, that's not fair. First of all, you don't _have_ to be the asshole; Dad's cornered the market on that. Second, I haven't seen Callie in two years. Did you want me to start chewing her out the second I laid eyes on her?" Then, almost under his breath, "Plus I figured she had enough yelling coming later."

"You're her brother, too, Sam! Maybe if _you_ told her to cut this shit out she'd actually listen!"

There was a disbelieving huff of laughter from Sam. "It's not like she's made a habit out of this, Dean; she's never done anything like this before!"

"Oh yeah? And how the hell would _you_ know? How would you know about _anything_ that's going on with us, with your _family_? But for what it's worth, you're wrong. Every time something goes wrong at home, every time that kid gets in trouble or has to do chores she doesn't want to do or is just in the mood to be a bigger pain in my ass than usual, you know what she does? She _threatens_ me, Sam! She threatens to run away and come live with you. Now why do you think that is, huh? So what you _should_ have done when she turned up here, what a _responsible_ big brother would have done, is to sit her ass down and tell her in no uncertain terms that this is _not_ okay, this is _not_ going to happen again, and that she needs to shape the hell up!"

"That's hilarious, Dean, _you're_ calling _me_ irresponsible? The first thing I did when I found Callie was to call you so you wouldn't worry!"

"Yeah, and then probably spent the next however long till I got here coddling her instead of putting the fear of God in her for pulling a stunt that could have gotten her killed!"

"Dean, it's not like that, okay? No, I didn't yell at her, but you know what? Maybe that's not what she needs! Maybe this is a cry for help, for attention that she's not getting at home. And if I'm the only one she can get some kind of reassurance from, then hell no, I'm not going to turn her away. If you think that makes me a traitor or a shitty brother or whatever, then so be it. Let me reiterate, Dean: I haven't seen her in _two years_!"

" _And WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?!"_ Dean exploded, and I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled myself up from the kitchen floor and slipped around the corner, hovering close to the wall so I could retreat if I felt the need to and staring wide-eyed at my brothers. They were facing off in the middle of the room, shoulders squared, puffed up to full height (which was pretty impressive on both of them, frankly), standing with their chests a little too close together for my liking, as if any second one of them would throw a punch and then it was going to get ugly fast.

There was a long silence during which only the sound of their breathing could be heard. Finally, Sam seemed to deflate slightly, indicating that the danger of punching might be over. I let myself relax a little. "It always comes around to that, doesn't it? I thought someday you might understand, move past it, but you're never going to. It's always going to be between us."

"Why wouldn't it, Sam? _You_ left. _Your_ choice. You can't pretend to be some victim because you're missing out on our baby sister growing up."

"I talk to her three times a week, at least," Sam shot back. "I guarantee you I know more of what's going on in her mind and her heart than you do. And you're _there_."

"Maybe I think it's a little more important to keep her _alive_ than to listen to her talk about boys and complain about how mean Dad is for hours on end."

" _Maybe_ it's not an either/or proposition, Dean!"

"Shut the hell up. You don't know what it's like."

"I lived it, Dean. I was there with you, by your side and her side and Dad's side. Every day. Have you forgotten that?"

"No, and you know what else I haven't forgotten? That you chose to turn your back on us and go off to live your make-believe normal life. Two years is a long damn time, Sammy, and unless your priorities change it's gonna be even longer before you see that girl again."

Before Sam could respond to that, Dean's green eyes shifted slightly and caught me in my little corner, pinning me there with their intensity. "You," he growled. "Get your bag, go down and wait for me in the car."

Sam turned and spotted me standing there, tears streaming silently down my cheeks.

"Sammy?" I asked plaintively, a note of panic creeping into my heart as I realized that this might actually be it, that I would be whisked away and there wouldn't be a chance for a real goodbye and then what exactly had Dean meant just now when he'd said it would be—

" _Now_!" Dean snapped, and I jumped but still held my ground.

"But, Dean, I … Sammy, not yet," I pleaded. "Can I just—"

Dean swept past Sam and came to tower over me. He tilted my head up with a finger under my chin and trapped my gaze with his as he spoke, enunciating each word clearly for maximum effect. "You do not have a _shred_ of bargaining power right now, little girl, do you understand me? And so help me, if I have to _put_ you in that car…"

He left the threat hanging in the air, but I knew better than to push it. I sidestepped him and flew into Sam's arms, which instantly opened wide to receive me. He picked me up like I was just a little girl again and hugged me tightly enough that I thought he might crack a rib. Putting his mouth close to my ear, he whispered, "It's going to be okay, Callie. Do what Dean says, all right?"

"But … but when will I see you again, Sammy? I – I don't wanna – I …" My voice broke off as I began to cry in earnest. This was too familiar, too much like that night I'd clung to him before he handed me off to Dean and walked away, the night swallowing him up like he'd been a ghost all along.

For a few minutes we stood like that, Sam rocking me slightly in his arms, his hand tangled in my hair, not answering my question, Dean standing surly guard behind us. When I opened my eyes and looked at him over Sam's shoulder, I was surprised to see not the anger and impatience I expected to see etched into his features but rather pity and sorrow. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and chin in a gesture I recognized as Dean getting a handle on his emotions before he spoke.

" _This_ , Sam," he said. "How many times, man? _How many times_?"

I wasn't exactly sure what he meant, but Sam seemed to get it, and I felt his breath hitch a little bit. He set me gently on my feet and cleared his throat and brushed a hand over his eyes. Then he knelt down so he could look me in the eyes. "Callie, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?"

I nodded, the movement causing a couple more tears to slip from my eyes. Sam swiped them away with his thumb before continuing.

"I love you," he said. "I love you more than you can even possibly imagine. There is _nothing_ I wouldn't do for you. But your home is with Dean and Dad, and you can't run away anymore. It's dangerous and it's disrespectful. It makes everyone worry, which isn't fair to anyone who cares about you. And we all do, Cal, you got that? Dad, Dean, Bobby … all of us love you and care about you and don't want anything bad to happen to you, ever. Sometimes that means you have to do things you don't want to do or obey orders you don't understand or put up with Dad when he's being unreasonable and Dean when he's being a jerk. Or me, when I call you too many times in a week and nag you about schoolwork." He smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. "And I will, you know that. But you need to stay put, Callie. No more surprise visits."

"But that means I won't see you?" I asked in a tiny voice. This felt too final, and my heart was aching, and this was not how it was supposed to go.

Sam glanced back over his shoulder at Dean, who was looking pointedly away, offering no assistance.

"If you need me, I'm here," Sam said at last. "Always. And that goes for—for all of you."

With that, he gave me another tight hug and kissed me on the top of the head. "Be good, Cal," he said. Standing up, he turned back to Dean. Even though my own tears, I could see that both of my brothers were battling emotion, too. Sam held out his hand to Dean and for a few moments of forever Dean didn't reciprocate. Sam's hand hung there in the air, and no one seemed to breathe, and Dean's expression gave nothing away of what was going through his head. And then he grasped Sam's hand and used it to yank him forward, wrapping his other arm around Sam in a tight hug. Surprised by the gesture, Sam slowly put his free arm around Dean and squeezed back. When they finally broke apart, it was with a couple of manly claps on the back, as if both of them were slightly embarrassed by the unexpected display of affection. I'm not even sure if they looked at each other in the eyes, but I didn't think that mattered. And despite the ache in my chest, I felt lighter for what had just happened.

"Take care," Sam said to Dean as he walked us to the door, and it was more than just the casual phrase people use, and we all knew it.

"Every day," said Dean. "You too, Sammy. You, uh, study hard, okay? Make it worth it."

Sam smiled at that, and then blew me a kiss and waved and the door shut behind him.

I tried to hold in the sobs that were building in my chest, and I made it as far as the Impala parked illegally at a yellow curb. But when I climbed into the passenger seat—Sam's seat, forever and always—I couldn't hold back anymore. I buried my face in my hands and wept into them.

Dean's door slammed shut as he dropped in behind the wheel, and there was not even a breath of hesitation—he grasped my upper arm and pulled me across the bench seat to him, wrapping his strong arms around me and murmuring soothing words into the top of my head. I clutched his leather jacket and cried into his chest in the dark, soaking his shirt with snot and tears but knowing he didn't care. I also knew that he was still super pissed at me, that later there would be yelling and threatening and repercussions aplenty. But right now, _right now_ all that mattered was our shared sadness, our shared sense of loss and the ache that comes when a piece of your heart is missing.

Sammy would come back to us for good one day; Dean had told me so once, and I believed him because he was Dean and he knew everything. And I knew that Sam was happy here now, and that right now this was the right place for him, and that he hadn't left because he didn't love us. I knew all of those things.

But that didn't make it any easier to lose him again.

 **The End.**

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 **Well that's all for this one! Thank you to those of you who reviewed or favorited or followed this and Simple Kind of Life. If you'd like more Callie, I'd be happy to write something. I don't have any ideas as of yet, but if you'll read, I'll write. Think of me as a fanfiction vending machine. As a matter of fact, this update only happened because some sweet person reviewed just today telling me she was eagerly awaiting another chapter. Voila! Oh, and if you haven't, check out Buzzwords (in my profile). It's not a plotty story, but one that I think sheds some light into Callie's character and how she thinks and feels with regard to the other Winchesters.  
**

 **In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you thought of this story, too! Thank you in advance, and let me know if you would read more Callie or if I should put her on the shelf with all those other forgotten Winsisters. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**HELLO! It's been too long. Thank you for those of you who reviewed and send me little nudges along the way, reminding me of how much I enjoy doing this. Let me preface this chapter by saying that it should *technically* be a whole new story. It's not for multiple reasons, not least of which is that I'm lazy. Also I suck at summaries, and disclaimers, and then you have to weed out all those people who hate sisfics but then insist on reading them and giving you a bad review or inexplicably informing you that the Winchesters don't have a sister so your story is pointless ... I mean, YOU MUST BE JOKING. I hallucinated a sister? Yeah, no. So this is just going to continue a year from where the last chapter left off. It'll pick up at the time the series began, when Sam comes back on the road with them, but I don't plan to follow along episode by episode. I will get more of the between-times, which I find more fun and more interesting than trying to squish Callie into those already-brilliant stories written by people a helluva lot more talented than I.**

 **Oh, and in case you're new, the Callieverse started with "A Simple Kind of Life." There is also "Buzzwords," which is different and hasn't gotten much love, but I enjoy writing it, so there it is. :)**

 **So here's a new chapter that may as well be a new story. Don't hate me for the cop-out. But do, please, PLEASE review. I can't even tell you what a boost that gives a fanfic writer.**

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When I was twelve, I stopped taking Sam's calls.

For a long time he kept on calling me anyway, at our usual times, religiously. He left messages. He asked me to call him back, to tell him what was going on. He said he missed me. He said he loved me. He said I could tell him anything. That he was here for me no matter what.

I'd heard it all before.

A year ago, when I was eleven, and had run away to see him at Stanford, he'd assured me of all those things, and I'd believed him. But the year since hadn't been exactly kind, with my relationships with my dad and Dean growing increasingly tense and volatile, and at some point I guess I began to blame Sam. If he hadn't left in the first place. If he would let me come and live with him. If he could at least put aside his crap with Dad and come visit sometimes. But he didn't. He wanted to be my long-distance brother, and that just didn't cut it anymore, not when everything at home was such a mess so much of the time, when I was getting ignored or neglected the fifty percent of the time I wasn't getting yelled at. And so gradually, almost without my noticing it was happening, I began to resent Sam.

I resented Sam more than I resented Dean when he was being especially difficult (which was often). I resented Sam more than I resented Dad, whom I had always suspected resented _me_ more than I could ever resent _him_ , so that what passed as their relationship was really just a fizzing ball of resentment with little threads of maybe-love running through.

It was easy enough to resent Sam, and to push him out of my mind, once he stopped calling. And he did, though like I said, it took longer than I would've liked. It was easy because Sam was kind of a taboo topic around the rest of the family anyway. Dad sure didn't like it when his name was brought up, and Dean pretty much lived to please him, so it's not like he was talking about our brother much either.

But then Dad went on a hunting trip, and he didn't come home for a few days.

And then Dean got the brilliant (not) idea of driving to Stanford—not calling first, mind you, Dean was relying almost entirely on the element of surprise working in our favor, and can I just ask you, has that ever, _ever_ worked for anyone? No, it hasn't, because people like to be _prepared_ before someone turns their lives upside down—and crashing Sam's new family-less life to enlist his help in finding Dad.

I tried to talk him out of it. Many, many times. Many, many ways.

I tried logic: "Dean, if Dad were in trouble he would find a way to get word to someone. Bobby, probably. He knows you're stuck with me so he wouldn't come to you first anyway. He'll probably just be pissed if you go chasing after him." (Dean told me he'd checked with everyone who might know anything, did I think he was stupid, and reminded me that Dad would be pissed if he was in trouble and we _didn't_ go looking for him, too.)

I tried inflicting doubt: "What's your plan, just knock on his door and say 'Hey, Sammy, why don't you leave everything you've been working for here and your girlfriend and your school and your job,'—'cause you know Sam probably has a job on top of everything else—'and come back on the road with us to find the guy who told you to never come back'?" (Dean told me to pack my crap and let him worry about the details.)

I tried sarcasm: "Sure, Dad'll be _thrilled_ that you're bringing Sam back into the fold without any warning. Nope, there won't be any awkwardness there. If we're really lucky maybe they'll actually throw punches this time." (Dean told me to shut it and gave me that look of his that I've never been totally brave enough to defy, so shut it I did.)

I sulked in the passenger seat the whole way to Stanford. Even when he bought me a chocolate shake at the roadside diner where we stopped for dinner. (Sam was my chocolate-shake-buyer and Dean knew that, so I felt manipulated.) Even when he told me I could pick the music as long as I chose something from his tape collection. Even when he cracked jokes that were clearly intended to elicit a laugh or a smile or at least to thaw me out enough to make this road trip a little less horrible. I could tell I was getting under his skin, that his patience was wearing thin. The worry over Dad, combined with the stress and uncertainty of our journey to maybe-kind-of kidnap our brother, mixed with my sullenness was pushing him toward his inevitable snapping point. For once I didn't care. Let him yell. I hated this idea. I wasn't ready to face Sam. I didn't think—not _really_ —that anything could have happened to Dad because he was _Dad_. So this whole thing? Pointless.

"You tired?" he asked after a silence so long that I jumped at the sound of his voice. "Need to stop, stretch your legs?"

That was just more manipulation; Dean didn't stop to let people stretch their legs. Dean wouldn't care if your legs seized up in an eternal muscle cramp from being in the car for seventy-two hours straight and you were never able to walk upright again, not as long as he was behind the wheel and the road was zipping along underneath the tires and some classic rock was on the radio.

"No, I'm fine, but if you're nervous and need to stop to reconsider this terrible plan, then sure, let's do it."

He sighed and I saw his hands tighten on the wheel, his knuckles whitening.

"We'll be there really late even if we don't stop," I said. "So on top of everything else, you're just gonna drag him out of bed in the middle of the night?"

"Callie."

"You know he lives with his girlfriend, right? Or at least he used to. What if he's busy. What if he's having sex?"

"Callie." A little sterner.

"You're going to barge into his life that he's made it very clear we have no place in, drag him out of bed and away from sex with his hot girlfriend, and tell him you're scared because Daddy's been gone too long? Do you even hear how stupid that sounds?"

Oops, too far.

The Impala swerved to the shoulder of the road, gravel and dust spraying up in a giant cloud outside my window. I yelped when Dean grasped me by the arm and forcibly turned me to face him. "You're going to stop this and you're going to stop it _now_ ," he growled. "You're going to ditch the attitude, the snide comments, the disrespect, because let me tell you, little sister, if you don't…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. I was sufficiently chastised. He can do that to a person, you know, just look at them a certain way and have them shaking in their boots. My wide eyes were glued to his, mirror image green, and he waited to see if I would dare venture another dig. When I didn't, he released my arm, which kind of ached where his fingers had sunk in, and pulled back out onto the empty road.

I leaned my forehead against the window and tried to make my expression neutral so he couldn't accuse me of still having an attitude.

I did, though, you better believe it. I told him he was a domineering jerk and that this was a stupid plan and as soon as Sam told him off, he'd wish he'd listened to me in the first place and that I hoped Dad kicked his ass when he came home from his hunt and found out what Dean had done and how majorly he'd overreacted. I even called him an asshole.

So what if I only said these things in my head; it still counts.

I just hope he can't read my thoughts.

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 **Please click to review! I'll love you forever. No, really.**


	5. Chapter 5

I fell asleep before we got to Sam's apartment, my head pillowed on Dean's jacket, which I'd balled up and placed between my head and the window. So when I awoke to complete darkness, the imprint of one of the buttons on his coat pressed deep into my cheek, and realized the car had stopped, I was momentarily disoriented.

"What's happening?" I asked, my voice thick with drowsiness. "Where are we?"

"We're here. Sam's place. I'm going up; I want you to stay here and keep the doors locked."

"Wait … what? Why can't I come with you?"

"Because, Cal, this is a delicate situation. I need to handle this my way."

I frowned, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes. "But I could help," I protested.

"Help? All you've been saying for the past three days is how this will never work, we don't need him, this is pointless, this is stupid. I don't think that's going to do much to sway him my way. Besides, you're mad as hell at him, and you can be a pain in the ass when you're like that."

"Hey!"

"Truth. Now listen up, lock the doors when I get out and stay in the car. Once I've got Sammy on board I'll come back down and we'll go find someplace to crash for the night."

I fixed him with what felt like a steely glare, but he didn't succumb to it like I thought he should have. He just met my gaze as he pointed a finger directly at my nose and repeated, "Stay."

Like I'm a damn dog.

He got out and slammed his door, aiming a pointed look at me until I obeyed about the door-locking, not sure if that measure was for the sake of protecting me or his precious Baby but knowing he'd bitch about it if I didn't comply. I'd learned long ago that the best way to deal with my oldest brother was to at least make him _think_ you were doing what he told you to do. It saved a lot of effort and petty bickering. I may be a kid, but I'm no dummy.

He was gone a long time. The longer he was gone, the harder my heart pounded in my chest and the tighter my stomach balled up. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of: that he'd say yes, or that he'd say no. No would confirm everything I'd spent the past year convincing myself of, that he had washed his hands of us and just didn't give a damn anymore. No would mean he was lying through his teeth all those times he'd told me he loved me, read me stories and tucked me into bed and comforted me when I was scared at night and bought me milk shakes and defended me against Dad and Dean when he thought they were being jerks to me. No would mean his love had always been hollow.

But yes? Yes would be complicated. Would I be able to look him in the eyes? Would seeing him make me feel better or worse about how I'd cut him off, more or less guilty? Was my cutting him off kind of, in its own way, the same thing he'd done to us?

I didn't want to consider that. Who wants to look back at their own righteous anger and begin to wonder if it was righteous after all, or if it was just … misguided? Maybe I'd just wanted to get in the last punch. That sounded so simplistic. So, I don't know, mean.

Dean had been gone for approximately seventy-three hours, give or take, when I decided to go up and see what was happening. It could've been more like twenty minutes, but hey, I didn't have a watch. I slipped out of the Impala and shut the door behind myself with the familiar old creak-bang, freezing for a few moments in the still dark silence of the street to see if I'd called attention to myself. When Dean didn't appear out of thin air to chew me out, I crept toward Sam's building, up the steps to the door that I remembered from the last time I'd been here, after running away during a particularly crappy bout of Too Much Winchester.

I had my ear pressed to the door and was straining to listen when it suddenly opened inward and I tripped, falling forward into a pair of solid arms. They kept me from a graceless face-plant, for which I was grateful, but when I realized who they belonged to, I wished I'd hit the floor instead. Sam lifted me until I was upright again, and I immediately jerked myself out of his grasp.

"What in the hell are you doing here?"

That was Dean, of course. My eyes flew from Sam's face—his expression shell-shocked, confused, and strained from what I could only imagine was his encounter with Dean, and mixed with something else that I attributed to him being at least slightly glad to see us—and landed on our big brother. "I didn't think you were coming back," I said, shrugging. "You've been gone forever."

"Callie, when I tell you to—" he began in his lecturey tone.

"Callie, oh my God, you've grown so much!" Sam interrupted, a smile now pulling tentatively at his lips and lighting up his eyes.

"It happens," I said noncommittally. "Puberty."

Dean stepped forward. "Yeah, and let me tell you, little brother, you thought she was a pain in the ass before, you'll love what the preteen hormones are doing to her."

"Hey!" I started to protest, but he silenced me with a look that reminded me I was lucky he was letting it drop about my disobeying his order to stay put.

"Well, you look great," Sam continued a little awkwardly. "I've missed you."

I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself to look at nothing because the silence of my not responding to that was loud and painful even for me.

"So what's the deal?" I asked, directing my question pointedly at Dean. "Is he in or out?"

"He's in," Dean said, eyes on Sam.

"I'm in _temporarily_ ," Sam amended. "I'm in until we get a lead on Dad. That's all I can do."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, his voice holding a note of barely suppressed triumph. "You've already laid out the ground rules for me, I got it."

"Yeah, we wouldn't want to disrupt your awesome life or anything," I said, not even aware I was going to speak until the words hit the air.

"Callie," Dean scolded.

"That's not what I meant," Sam said mildly. "I just …"

"…have important things to do, no time to waste helping your former family," I finished for him.

"Callie, knock it off."

"It's all right, Dean, she's got a right to be angry. I get it," Sam said, and the reasonableness in his tone lit a fire in me. So when he reached out to put a hand on my shoulder, about to say something else that would probably be even more gentle and emotionally aware and infuriatingly soothing, I smacked it away with my open palm with a crack that echoed in the small living room.

"Don't!" I yelled. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

He pulled back instantly, his face registering the hurt and confusion of a kicked puppy, and the surge of guilt I felt might have made me apologize on the spot, try to take it back, but then Dean was grabbing my arm and steering me toward the door. Pushing me out onto the little slab of concrete beyond and pulling the door closed behind us, he got right in my face as he growled, " _Lock it_ the fuck _down_ , Callie, right now. If he backs out because you're being a little bitch, I promise you I will take it out of your ass, you hear me? You zip your smart mouth and you keep all that bitter bullshit to yourself until we've got Dad back. Got it?"

I nodded, wide-eyed. With one last fiery look, he released me and I followed him back inside, all the wind effectively taken out of my sails. At least for the moment.

Sam was standing there, his expression more conflicted than ever as he glanced back and forth between us. "Look, guys, I don't—"

"Nope, Sammy, no take-backs," Dean quickly cut him off, trying to sound breezy and good-natured even as the flicker of fear in his eyes betrayed him. "You said you're coming, you're coming."

"I know, it's just that … I don't … Cal …"

"Callie wants you with us as much as I do. She just forgot for a second. Right, Cal?" he prompted, the edge in his tone reminding me that I was on very thin ice.

I stared fixedly at my shoes. "Yes," I said at last. "We need your help, Sam."

And that seemed to decide it for him. There was more talk between my brothers of plans—tonight Dean and I would get a motel room and Sam would pack some crap and meet us in the morning and we'd talk strategy. But I zoned out because I was tired. And I was sad. And I was hurt. And I was worried.

And as I peeked surreptitiously at Sam, taking in his shaggy brown hair and the familiarity of his mannerisms, his dimples and his tall frame and his _Sam-ness,_ it occurred to me that I was something else, too. I was happy.

Don't tell them that.

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 **Uh oh ... did I lose y'all? Thank you SO much to the two reviewers on my last chapter! It makes such a difference when people just take a second to click that little review button at the bottom and say a few words to let me know what you thought. That often makes the difference between a story drying up completely or continuing indefinitely. I would probably write in a vacuum, mind you, but it's a hell of a lot more fun to share it when other people are reading and (hopefully) enjoying. So if you would, hit me up with a review. It would mean the world. Thank you in advance! Rock on, SPNFamily!**


	6. Chapter 6

"How many motel room beds you think we've slept in?"

Dean shifted in his chair at the standard crappy-motel-issue table by the window, where he was perusing something online—not porn, I didn't think, probably something Dad-related—and raised an eyebrow at me.

"I thought you were asleep," he said.

I rolled over onto my side, bunching up the pillow under my head so I could look at him right-side-up. "I'm not tired," I said, shrugging one shoulder. "How many?"

"Well my number's a hell of a lot bigger than yours, I know that."

"OK, if you had to guess mine."

"Callie, is there a point to this?"

"Nope. I'm just bored."

"Then go to sleep. You won't be bored anymore; you'll be unconscious."

"It's probably in the hundred thousands."

"You haven't been alive that long."

"You sound like Sammy Smartass."

"Hey." He shot me a scowl. "None of that."

"What?" I asked innocently. "I've heard _you_ call him that."

"Callie, I need you to stow your crap with Sam. I'm not going to keep reminding you. We have one goal right now, and that's finding Dad. You moping around and taking pot shots at Sam is not going to help us do that. All it's going to do is piss me off."

"So that's different from every other day how, exactly?"

"You may have a point there; you do have a gift."

I sighed. "It's not easy to just pretend like everything's normal again with him. I can't help the way I feel," I said sulkily.

"No, but you can help the way you act and you can control your mouth. So let's start now, huh? If you feel like you're going to say something bratty, just don't."

"Does that only apply to Sam? I can still say bratty things to you, right?"

He glanced at me, his face serious but his eyes slightly amused. "I've never been able to stop you before."

"Good. Then have I mentioned that I think this whole idea is stupid?"

"Callie? Lights out."

* * *

 _In the dream Dad and Sam are fighting, and in that way it's almost like it's not a dream at all. I'm curled up in the corner with my hands over my ears and my eyes squeezed tightly shut while Dean tries to intercede before the fight escalates into actual physical violence. It never has before, but it's getting worse every time, and one of these days one of them is going to throw a punch and then … well I don't want to think about what happens then._

 _But I don't have to. Because what's happening the next time I open my eyes (in the dream, I mean) is way, way worse than hitting. Dad is pointing a gun at Sam, shouting at him to get the hell out and never come back, and Dean is yelling and Sammy is staring at Dad with this devastated look like he can't even comprehend this kind of betrayal, and I grope my way up the wall in my corner and throw myself in front of Sam, facing Dad, but I'm only nine and Sam is very, very tall, so it's like a sapling trying to protect an oak tree from a tornado, and then it doesn't matter anyway because Sam plucks me off of him like a piece of lint and tosses me toward Dean, who catches me up in his arms and won't let me go even though I'm kicking like a maniac because I know, I know what happens next. And suddenly there is a gun in my hands, I think I snagged it from Dean's waistband, and I manage to turn even in his breathless hold and I aim at the same time Dad does, and when the shots come they make my ears ring so loudly that I can't hear anything, so that when I look down and see them both, my father and my Sam, lying in their respective pools of blood on the floor, I can't even hear myself scream._

* * *

And then suddenly, consciousness was shaking the hell out of me. Or, rather, Dean was. My eyes flew open and met his, which were wide and frantic as he held me by the shoulders, punctuating his reassurances of "Callie, Callie, it's just a dream. Wake up, now, I'm here. Everything's okay, you're dreaming!" with sharp little shakes in an effort to snap me out of it.

"I shot him, I _shot_ him!" I kept saying, repeating the words in a horrified, stricken tone, and I realized that there were tears on my cheeks, that my heart was about to explode, that I was…

"I'm gonna be sick," I managed to choke out, and Dean moved faster than seemed humanly possible so that almost before the words left my lips he was holding an empty ice bucket in front of me. With his other hand he gathered my long, dark brown hair back into a makeshift ponytail and waited for me to finish.

"Better?" he asked when my stomach had finally finished upheaving its contents and was settling tentatively into submission. He took the ice bucket from me and placed it far on the other side of the room, then returned to my bedside with a glass of water. "Drink this," he said, sitting down next to me and putting am arm around my trembling shoulders.

I took a small sip and grimaced. "Ugh, it tastes weird."

"Yeah, puke makes everything taste weird," Dean acknowledged. "You want to tell me about the dream?"

I shook my head. "It was … dumb. Just a stupid nightmare."

"Sometimes it helps to get it out in the open. It's like turning on the light and realizing that the monster in the corner is just a shadow."

I looked up at him seriously. "But it usually _is_ a monster."

He gave me a "fair enough" shrug and amended, "For us, yeah. For normal people, it's usually a shadow."

A few minutes passed in silence, Dean rubbing my back and waiting for me to finish the water and tell him what had caused the night terror.

"Who did you shoot?" he asked at last, once he decided that I really wasn't in the mood for midnight share time.

I didn't answer for a long time, feeling that if I said it out loud, Dean would be as horrified as I felt, as if my actions in a bad dream were somehow realistic offenses and he would hate me for them. Finally, he gave my shoulder a little squeeze, and I blurted it out: "Dad. I shot Dad. And then they were both dead."

Dean didn't respond, and I took that as a clear indication that I had horrified him beyond words. So I forced the last part out because the damage was done. "But I shot first, Dean," I said, my voice hoarse with the memory of the dream. "I shot first and his gun went off when he fell. I killed them both."

With that, I turned fully into my big brother's chest and began to cry.

* * *

Dreams lose a lot of their power with morning light, and by the time I awoke the next morning, curled up next to Dean with a fistful of his shirt clutched between my fingers, a lot of the horror had faded. I still had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I wondered if that was more because of the pukefest and less because of the dream itself.

I was still unconvinced that this mission to find Dad was anything less than Dean's attempt to drag Sam back into the life, and I was utterly convinced that that was a bad idea. He didn't want us, he'd proved that to us over and over again; what was it going to take for Dean to let him go?

And more than that, knowing that I was expected to pretend that I wasn't angry with him, that my hurt and sense of betrayal did not go bone-deep, that I could look at him and not see someone who had abandoned me TWICE—that was not a pleasant prospect. But Dean had made it clear that I was to treat Sam at least civilly, so when he knocked on the door of our motel room bright and early while Dean was in the shower, I let him in. Hey, that's civil, right? I could've made him stand out there and wait until we were ready to go.

"I brought doughnuts," he said, setting down a box of pastries and a beverage container that held two cups of coffee. "I got a couple of strawberry frosted ones for you."

"I don't like strawberry frosteds anymore," I said rudely. "I haven't liked them since I got sick on them at Bobby's a year ago."

He looked disappointed. "Oh. Well, there's other kinds, too."

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay, suit yourself." He sat down in a chair at the table and started to reach for one of the coffees. I grabbed it first. He gave me an annoyed raised-eyebrow look. "Um, since when do you drink coffee?" he asked.

"Since forever," I lied, prying off the lid and taking a small sip of the scalding, bitter liquid.

He looked unconvinced. "Dean lets you drink coffee?"

I gave him my bitchiest look that didn't involve sticking my tongue out. "I don't have to get Dean's permission for everything," I said. "I'm _twelve_."

He was about to laugh at me, I could see it in his eyes, but the bathroom door opened just then and Dean came out enveloped in an enormous cloud of steam, toweling his wet hair. "You don't have to get Dean's permission for what?" he asked. "Mornin', Sammy."

He came over to inspect the box of doughnuts. "Mmm, strawberry frosted," he said happily, grabbing two and sitting in the chair opposite Sam. Tossing a glance at me, he fixed me with a look. "You want a cigarette to go with that coffee, sunshine?"

I pouted, embarrassed that he was going to pull rank in front of Sam after I'd just tried to make a point. "I was up late; I need it."

His mouth full of strawberry frosted doughnut, Dean reached up and seized the coffee cup from me. "Not half as much as I do."

I tried not to meet Sam's eyes, but I couldn't help it, and when I did, he was giving me an amused, big-brotherly, told-you-so look that made me want to take the other coffee and dump it in his lap. I resisted, but only because that would be a waste of coffee.

Ignoring the delicious-smelling doughnuts, I stomped off to the bathroom to shower while my brothers made plans.

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 **Thoughts? Likes? Dislikes? Hit me.**


	7. Chapter 7

When I was little, too little to be left behind in a motel room and too far away from anyone trustworthy enough to keep an eye on me while my family went out, I was the Impala's benchwarmer. I would sit there and brood as they shuttled from place to place, talking to witnesses, families of victims, logged time at the library and the police station and the morgue. I hated it and would complain and whine and whine and complain until Dad threatened to put me out on the side of the road if I didn't shut it. I didn't think he would actually do that, but with John Winchester, it's best not to call bluffs. So I would seethe more quietly.

I didn't appreciate being relegated to that again, but in this hunt for Dad, which had turned kind of dire over the past few days, that's what had happened. And what's worse, even now that I was older and this was a case that DIRECTLY AND DEEPLY AFFECTED ME, I wasn't being TOLD anything, which made me so angry I could spit. They had leads; I knew they did, and we were in a new town, from what I could gather, the last place Dad had been seen. But whenever I asked a question, I was offered cheap words of comfort, ignored, or snapped at, depending on the circumstances (and the brother).

"What's a woman in white?" I demanded one day when they were actually in the middle of TALKING about women in white, so I figured it was a relevant enough question.

They continued as if I hadn't spoken. I gritted my teeth and tried again. "Guys. What is a woman in white?"

Sam, to his credit, glanced away from Dean. "It's uh—it's what we think Dad was here hunting."

"But what is it? Is it dangerous?"

Dean let out an annoyed sigh. "No, Cal, it's one of those perfectly _harmless_ monsters."

Stung by his sarcasm, I smacked him on the shoulder. "You don't have to be a dick about it," I grumbled.

He fixed me with a look. "Sit back and put your seatbelt on," he instructed.

I gave the back of his seat a petulant little kick before slumping back with my arms folded, glaring daggers at my brothers. "Kick my seat again, little girl, I dare you," he growled before turning his attention back to Sam and continuing their conversation where they'd left off.

I felt a little like crying, and a _lot_ like kicking Dean's seat again, much harder (but I didn't have a death wish). The thing was, my certainty that there was nothing to worry about, that Dad was invincible and was going to show up any day now and be pissed off that we'd started a freaking _manhunt_ for him like he was some sort of rookie, was beginning to fade as the time went by and Dean and Sam grew more worried. And the fact that they didn't seem to think I was old enough or mature enough to be told any details, even if the details were scary or painted a worrisome picture of where he might be or what might have happened to him? That was making me _nuts_.

When Dean got out to fuel up the car, Sam turned around in his seat and looked at me. "You hangin' in there?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," I said snarkily. "Having a blast."

"I know it's boring," he said. "Once we check in somewhere I'll see if I can convince Dean to let you hang out and watch TV while we head back out."

I frowned. "He's never had a problem leaving me alone before; why now?"

"I don't know; with Dad missing he's reining everybody in. You know Dean. Trouble surfaces, his protective instincts go wild."

"Yeah, because otherwise he's so chill."

Sam grinned at me and I looked away, because his smile had always been hard to resist and I wasn't ready to forgive him yet.

"Hey, so. When are you leaving?" I asked instead of returning his smile. "You told Dean you had to be back by Monday."

He hesitated so long I almost thought he hadn't heard me, except we were in an otherwise-silent car and there's no way he didn't. Finally, he said, "I do, yeah. I think we've made good headway; Dean can take it the rest of the way no problem."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That figures."

"What?"

"That you can't wait to get back to your regular life, the one without demons and monsters and … us."

"Callie, come on. That's not—"

"Yeah, that's exactly what you mean," I interrupted him. "You have to get back to classes and Jessica and, like, _beer_ , or whatever it is college people do."

"Callie, it's not like that. You guys needed me, and I dropped everything. I'm _here_."

"You're _borrowed_ ," I spat viciously. "From your _real_ life."

"That's not fair," Sam said, and I could sense that I had hurt him. I even flinched, because I loved him _so much_ and the idea of hurting him was repulsive and made me want to scream. His voice was strained, almost angry but mostly just filled with emotion. "Cal, I _tried_ , okay? Over and over and over again, I called you and called you and you wouldn't talk to me. All I could think was that you didn't want anything to do with me. What was I supposed to do with that? I was trying to give you what you _wanted_!"

"No one cares what I _want_!" I screeched, suddenly and completely undone. "You _left us_ , Sam, and Dean only wants Dad, and Dad _hates me,_ and I don't belong _anywhere_!"

I was crying and I couldn't make the tears stop or the words stop and Sam was looking at me in horror, like I'd suddenly started speaking in tongues and he didn't know what to do to make it stop, so I fumbled for the door handle and found it and opened the door and hurtled out into the gasoline-scented air and took off running from all of it. From Sam's betrayal and Dad's absence and Dean's impatience and my own purposelessness. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this.

My feet left the ground and the air was almost knocked from my lungs as an arm caught me around my middle and swung me up against an unseen chest. I didn't have to look to know, though. I knew Dean's scent by heart, leather and motor oil and whiskey and aftershave. Family and comfort and home. I buried my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck and continued to cry. I could feel his movements as he finished filling the Impala's gas tank and placed the nozzle back in its holster before moving that hand up to my back, pressing me firmly against his shoulder.

"Hey, _hey_ ," he said. "You're all right, kiddo, it's okay."

He held me like that for a long time, and at one point I know Sam got out of his side of the car and was going to say something but Dean shook his head at him and Sam gave up and retreated and when my sobs subsided Dean opened the back door of the Impala and shifted me into the backseat. He reached across to pull my seatbelt across me and buckled it securely, then gently brushed my hair out of my face and said, "You want a Coke?"

It was a comfort offering, and I knew it, and I wanted him to think I was really all right, so I nodded.

He bought me a 20-ouncer from the gas station market and handed it to me along with an unexpected kiss on the top of my head.

And then we were on the road again, and none of us had said any of the things that _needed_ to be said.

Winchesters, were we all.

* * *

 **Please review; I will be forever in your debt. THANK YOU to all who have reviewed thus far. Believe me when I say you are the only reason I continue writing.  
**


	8. Chapter 8

We didn't find Dad. We found a case. And by "we," I guess it's pretty obvious I mean "they," because it's not like I was allowed to do a damn thing. I stayed in the crappy motel room and watched fuzzy old game shows on an ancient box of a television and waited as my brothers came and went—once looking _and_ smelling like they'd fallen into a septic tank—and argued and bickered like an old married couple. The only interesting thing that happened (and by "interesting," I should tell you I mean "terrifying at the time but interesting once it turned out all right") was when Dean got arrested. Arrested! Sam shoved me out a bathroom window and instructed me to lay low until the cops cleared out before making his own escape. Why he didn't take me with him, I don't know. I guess he had big plans on springing Dean or ganking this Woman in White, which I'd figured out from my own research was a pretty common and really freaky type of ghost that I wasn't too keen on encountering myself. I knew what to do anyway. We had an emergency plan for every kind of scenario you could imagine, and this one was easy. They would work this out and come back for me. I might be pissed at Sam but I wasn't stupid. I'd been told to sit tight; sit tight I would.

So when the cops had done a quick and not-very-thorough sweep of the room and then gone off in search of the brother who got away (for once in my life it was kind of nice to be invisible and unknown; no one was looking for _me_ ), I climbed back in through the window and locked the front door and sat down to wait.

I waited a long time. And when they came to pick me up, I was annoyed by the long afternoon and evening of waiting and worrying. We had to get out of town quick; Dean hadn't exactly been released for good behavior.

They gave me the sketchy rundown of what had happened, the ghost mom and the ghost kids and the minor damage to the Impala (which Dean seemed to be pretty chill about, considering that if _I'd_ been the one who drove her through a house, I wouldn't have lived to tell the tale. I drove her into a tree once, so I knew up-close and personal what happened when you hurt Dean's Baby).

"So what now?" I asked when they'd finished filling me in. "We head to those coordinates Dad sent you, right?"

The glance that passed between them wasn't lost on me. I scooted up in the seat and rested my elbows on their seatbacks, supporting my chin on top of my clasped hands. Dean didn't like it when I sat like that; he said if he had to slam on the brakes I was gonna fly through the windshield. I thought that was a little "Mom" of him, and so I mostly just ignored it when he wasn't in a mood.

"What?" I pressed.

Sam cleared his throat and seemed to be looking to Dean for help. Dean, in turn, shrugged as if to say "This one's on you."

"Well, Cal, we're done here. I have to get back."

My heart sank. "What do you mean we're _done_ here?" I demanded, my voice coming out a little screechier than I'd intended. "We're not _done_ here; we haven't found Daddy!"

"No, not yet, but he knows how to reach us, and—"

"That's bullshit! You just can't wait to leave again!"

"Cal, this was never going to be long-term, you knew that."

"But I thought—I thought—oh screw it. I was an idiot. I was an idiot for thinking for a second that we meant anything to you. And I was an idiot because I was starting to think Dean was right."

"Callie, stop it," Dean said.

"He wanted you back, you know. For good. He thought if we could get you back on board for this one thing, that you'd remember what it meant to be part of the family. He had _faith_ in you. So I guess that makes him an idiot, too."

" _Callie_ , I said knock it _off_ ," Dean snapped, an edge of steel in his voice. He didn't like his emotions being bared, even when he was the one doing the baring. To have me expose him like that … I caught his eyes in the rearview and they were cold as ice.

"We haven't found Dad yet, Dean, and he could be in trouble, and Sam's just going to go back to his stupid college life and pretend that everything's fine? Why are you letting him do that?"

"He's not _letting_ me do anything," Sam interrupted. "This is something I have to do, and I'm a grown-up, okay? So like it or not, understand it or not, I'm going back to school. That doesn't mean I'm abandoning you, _or_ Dean, or even _Dad_ , who, let's take a second to remember, was the one who wanted me gone in the first place."

"Sam," Dean said in a low voice, a subtle warning.

"What? Have you revised history, too?" Sam demanded, angry now. "You guys both think I'm the bad guy here? He kicked me out of the damn house! He told me never to come back! I was following orders. _You_ of all people should understand _that_ , Dean."

"Shut up," Dean gritted out. "I'm taking you back, aren't I? You don't have to start digging up shit no one wants to remember."

"Except that neither of you will let _me_ forget it, will you? 'You left us, Sam, you walked out, Sam, we needed you and you weren't there and you don't care and you tore apart the family!'" His voice turned ugly as he mocked us, and it hurt. "It wasn't LIKE THAT, and I want someone to admit it! Admit that it wasn't just me! This damage did not happen in a vacuum; Dad is every bit as much to blame as I am and maybe more so because _he_ locked that door behind me."

" _You_ wanted to leave. _You_ left. Those are the _facts_. Did Dad act like a dick? Sure he did, but that's the way he deals with shit he doesn't want to deal with."

"Well I guess that runs in the family, huh?"

"All right, that's it, I'm done." There was a sudden screech of tires and I slid hard into the passenger-side door as the car swerved into a rutted old parking lot in front of a dive bar.

"Dean, ow!" I complained, rubbing my shoulder where it had smacked the door. "What are you doing?"

"I need a freaking beer."

He slammed the door hard—another cue to his current state of mind—and Sam and I sat in silence, the only sound the heavy crunch of our brother's boots on gravel as he stomped across the lot toward the bar.

I couldn't take the loaded silence, so I scrambled out into the night air, walked to the back of the Impala, and boosted myself up to sit on the trunk. A few moments passed before Sam followed. The car sank a little lower as he leaned against it, arms folded, not looking at me. I waited for him to speak first. I knew he would. He always had better words than I did.

"I miss you," he said, and I had not been prepared for that, for the simplicity and the bald honesty of those three words. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and started chewing because I did not want to cry. He went on. "I miss Dean. Hell, I miss _Dad_." He laughed lightly. "You guys are … I know you think I'm full of shit because of what I did but I swear on everything I have that you guys are _everything_ to me."

I snorted. "What about your girlfriend?"

He smiled. I wasn't looking at him, still, but I could hear it in his voice. "She's pretty great," he conceded. "And I love her. And I think you will too, one day. But that's a whole separate thing from the way I love you, from the way I love this family. _My_ family."

"But you can't stay."

"I can't stay," he agreed. "But Callie? Look at me."

When I didn't, he took my chin between his fingers and gently tipped my head up so I would meet his eyes. "That doesn't mean I don't want you in my life. I do, more than anything. When you stopped taking my calls, when you dropped off the map, it hurt. It broke my heart. And seeing you again, having you here with me, where I can talk to you and hug you—if I weren't pretty sure you'd punch me in the gut if I tried, that is—it's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. Please don't go away again."

Two fat tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes, and I let them fall. "You went away first," I said, my voice hoarse.

He nodded. "I know."

"And now?"

"I'm a phone call away, _always_. I promise you I will get to you, no matter where you are, no matter what you need or when you need it. Can you hold on to that? You can still be mad at me if you need to, but can you just tell me you believe me right now?"

Words formed behind my lips and I opened my mouth to say them, but then, surprising both of us, I just threw myself against him, my arms wrapping around his solid middle and squeezing, my face pressed against his chest. In an instant, his arms came up around me, too, and he squeezed so tightly it almost hurt, but I didn't tell him to loosen up. I listened to the strong and steady sound of his heart and I let the tears come, and when Dean finally came out about fifteen minutes later, he found us like that.

I was afraid he was going to pick up the fight where they'd left off, but instead, in typical Dean fashion, he just cleared his throat and growled, "Hey, kid, ass off my Baby."

It was enough to make me giggle, and I pulled back from Sam, who was smiling mildly, and wiped tears and snot from my face as I hopped down off the trunk.

"All right, if we're done with this chick-flick moment, girls, let's hit the road," Dean said.

He ruffled my hair affectionately as I walked past him to climb into the backseat.

My brothers spoke for a few minutes, and as much as I strained to hear what they said, I couldn't. But when they got back in the car, the tension that had been thick in the air before this little pit stop had vanished, replaced by a vague sense of sadness, because goodbyes are always sad even when there are no hard feelings.

Dean revved the engine and we headed off toward the place Sam now called home.

* * *

 **Hey! Thanks so much for the reviews! For those of you I haven't been able to thank personally because you're not logged in, know that your words of praise and support mean SO MUCH to me! I appreciate the time you took to let me know what you like about this little story of mine. I enjoy writing Callie and I don't want to quit, but it's just so much more satisfying to have at least a few readers along with me for the ride. So thank you for being awesome.**


	9. Chapter 9

It was no secret to me that my father found me to be more of a burden than anything else. He hadn't even loved my mother. Mary was the one he loved, the one and only, and when he got my mom pregnant it had been years after Mary's death and well into his budding alcoholism. He never expected to be saddled with me, either. My mother wasn't supposed to die. She was a hunter, a good one, from what Bobby and Ellen had told me—and she died as most hunters do: unremarkably. One mistake. One wrong move, one miscalculation. And that was all it took to alter my life, my brothers' lives, my father's life. I often wondered how different things would have been if she hadn't gone on that hunt in the first place, if she'd ganked the ghost and picked up four-month-old me from the sitter and we'd gone on about our lives as they were. Would I have known my father? Would he have been nice to me? Would I have ever met my brothers?

That last part set me back on my heels, wondering what it would have been like had I never known them. It left me chilled, a pit in my stomach. I didn't want to think of life without them.

Dad, though. I often thought he would have been happier had he never had to take on the extra burden of another child, and a girl, at that.

"I don't know what to do with you," he would say to me sometimes, and even if he was talking about the difficulty of teaching me to shoot a gun (I was terrible at it) or the basics of self-defense, I knew even when I was really young that it meant more than that. He quite genuinely _didn't know what to do with me._

So, he didn't do anything with me. Well, sure, he did the bare minimum. He kept me fed and kept me clothed and kept me looked after when he and the boys went on hunts. Beyond that, though. Beyond that, there wasn't much. I was largely ignored by him, often scolded, yelled at, or punished for minor childish infractions like being too loud when he was hung over in the mornings, or doing what he perceived to be talking back when really I was just trying to find a way to be heard. It was my brothers who helped me take my first steps. Who walked me into every single new school we had to start (and there were many). Who taught me to ride a bike. Who took care of me when I was sick and comforted me when I was upset and helped me with homework. Most people had one father; I had part of one and two fill-ins who were my whole world.

Every now and then, though, there was a flash of the John Winchester who must have won Mary's heart, inspired Dean's idolatry, charmed my mother into a relationship that might have turned into something lasting if she had lived. The glimpses of this man I didn't know came, generally, when it was very late and he was fairly drunk, when Dean and Sam weren't around and so there were no witnesses to his vulnerable demeanor. They always caught me off guard and made me feel cautious but hopeful, like if I said the wrong thing or the moment passed while I was standing there, he would change back and I'd never see him that way again.

In those moments I thought maybe he might even love me, a little.

"Your mama was a good woman," he said to me one night, slurring a bit as he poured another shot of whisky into his glass. "A good _hunter_. I'll never understand how that goddamn thing got the best of her that night."

I sat on the motel bed across the room from him, biting my lip, seven years old and desperate for anything regarding my mother because those who'd known her were few and far between, and Daddy _never_ talked to me this way. I was afraid he would realize, and stop.

"She should've had backup," he continued, thoughtfully. "It looked like routine and a quick salt-and-burn, but damn it, she knew better than to go in solo like that." He took a large sip of his drink and then his eyes fell on me. "You're like her that way, you know, even as young as you are. You want to do things yourself, like you got something to prove to the world. It's why I worry about you so much. I don't want you to end up like her. Can you understand that?"

I nodded, wide-eyed, the sheet clutched in both my fists, not daring to speak.

"I'm hard on you, Callie, because your mother deserved to live and she didn't get to. But you meant the world to her, the absolute fucking _world_. And so the least I can do for her, to honor her memory, is to make sure that her baby girl lives." There was a long pause and his next words made my breath catch in my throat: " _Our_ baby girl." He continued to hold my gaze and I didn't even blink, such was the power of John Winchester. "I'm hard on you because you need to grow up knowing that there's a lot of shit out there that wants to kill you. That _will_ kill you if you drop your guard even for a second. I know your brothers look after you and they do a real good job of it, but one day it's going to fall to you to keep yourself safe. I don't think it's ever too soon to teach you how to survive. Does that even make sense to you? Am I making sense?"

I nodded again.

"I made a mistake with Sam, not telling him the score until he was older than you are now, trying to shelter him, let him keep as much innocence as he could for as long as he could. I thought their mother would want that for him. But it backfired, you see. He didn't learn the survival skills until it was too late. He almost died at least once before he even knew that monsters are real, and all it did was put the weight of the world on Dean's shoulders, thinking he had to take care of himself and Sam, too. And now you. It's too much for any one kid."

There was a long pause as he examined the amber liquid in his glass and I wondered if he was finished. I didn't move a muscle, though.

"Don't you ever underestimate how much Dean's given up for you and your brother," he said. "Don't you ever think there's a thing in this world he wouldn't do for you or Sammy. Fact is, he's a better father than I ever could be, and that's maybe my greatest sin. It's going to follow me into the next life, I'll tell you that much. I've let my kids raise my kids, Callie, and that's … that's something I'll never forgive myself for."

He would have gone on, I think, and I would have let him even though there were tears on my cheeks now and my hands ached from the deathgrip I had on the sheets. But we both heard the unmistakable sound of the Impala's engine as it entered the motel parking lot and screeched to a stop outside our unit. We listened to the bang of the two doors, deep, teasing, muffled voices, and then they were there, dropping two bags of takeout food on the table in front of Dad and arguing about whether or not the lady at the diner had been checking out Dean or Sam.

Always the most empathetic of us all, Sam read the room before Dean did, and came over to sit beside me. "Hey, what's wrong, Cal?" he asked quietly, putting an arm around my shoulders. "You been crying?"

I didn't answer, and I noticed the hard look he shot in our dad's direction. I knew he thought Dad was responsible, and while he kind of was, he wasn't in the way that Sam was imagining. I wrapped both of my arms around my older brother's middle and squeezed. "I'm fine, Sammy," I said, trying to convey that I understood what he was thinking and that it really was all right. "Did Dean get me a cheeseburger?"

"Yep, with a side salad," Sam said. "You need veggies."

"Salad? No fries?!" I asked, completely derailed. "Dean!"

He smiled at me and came over to ruffle my hair. "Hey, you blame Sasquatch for that; he insisted that you haven't eaten anything green in two weeks and you're going to be three feet tall forever."

"I'm not three feet tall and I hate salad!" I protested.

"Eat half, and you can have some of my fries," Dean promised. And just like that, the heavy stuff with our dad had passed and I was back in my safe place, arguing with my big brothers.

But it happened periodically, when Dad was half drunk but not _dangerously_ drunk, when there were no witnesses and he was in a sharing mood and I wasn't pissing him off, that he would offer a few little peeks into his psyche, into his heart. Which was good, because when things were going badly, sometimes I wondered if he actually had a heart at all.

* * *

Saying goodbye to Sam had been awful. I'd expected it to be bad, but I hadn't quiet expected to feel so gutted, as if someone had reached inside me and squeezed my heart and my stomach together into one fist. I was the only one who cried, but I could tell they wanted to. When Sam had retreated into the dark, bag slung over his shoulder as he started up the steps of his apartment building, I let Dean reach over and tug me clumsily over the seatback until I was sitting next to him in front. He wrapped his strong arms around me and I buried my face in his jacket and wept. He made soothing noises and stroked my hair with one big hand, and I think if I'd looked up at him then, I would have seen a tear streaking down his cheek. I didn't look, though; Dean's tears always undid me.

We sat like that for a while, until I had regained some semblance of control over my tears and my breathing, and then he started the Impala and began to pull away from the curb where we were illegally parked.

That's when we heard muffled shouts and saw a blinding flash of light radiating from one of the apartment windows facing the street.

My heart froze in my chest. I knew it was Sam's.

* * *

 **Thank you for reviewing! I really appreciate it! I've had a few people ask me to delve more deeply into Callie and John's relationship, to explore why she feels the way she does about him. Here's the first part of that. There will be more. It was all touched upon in the first story of my Callie series, "Simple Kind of Life," but I know there's more that needs to be said, so I hope to convey as much as I can here without making this into a John story. I'm more invested in Callie's relationship with her brothers, but of course John has a role to play in that as well, because his own brand of parenting is what made his children's bond what it is. I don't want to portray him as a villain, either, but as a man who had too much to deal with at once, who found himself unraveling with his need for vengeance, who felt guilt and self-loathing just like his son Dean does but expressed that in very different and not-always-healthy ways, and who tried to do right by his kids but so often fell short of that.**

 **Please, more reviews! I've been on a roll lately and don't want to lose steam, so a little nudge will be just the thing to keep me writing.**


	10. Chapter 10

If I hadn't been raised on the impossible, I might have listened when Dean told me, over and over again, that what happened that night hadn't been my fault. That my desire to have Sam back, no matter how desperate, no matter how much or how deeply I wished that he didn't have any ties to Stanford holding him back from us, had not somehow blown up in all of our faces.

But I didn't listen.

Jessica was dead, Sam was broken, and it was all my fault.

The guilt weighed on me, made me retreat into myself even as my brothers did the same. Dean, primarily from his worry over Sam, who was grieving in such intense focused concentration that we could all feel it coming off of him in waves even as he tried to pretend he was okay. It seeped through the cracks, though, showing itself in a razor edge that hadn't been there before, a heavy silence and a quick temper that was just—so very unlike him. He would flip out on Dean at the slightest provocation, and he was short with me, snappish and irritable in a way that I couldn't remember him ever being before.

To me, that meant that he, unlike Dean, _believed_ it was my fault. So my guilt circled back around on itself, doubling up and strengthening, widening, thickening, darkening, becoming a burden I could barely contain.

And because I'd never been the best at dealing with such complicated emotions, I did all the wrong things, pissing my brothers off with clockwork regularity. Sometimes it was on purpose, sometimes not. But the weeks on the road following Jessica's death and Sam's return were rough, from a little sister standpoint.

One night Sam took me with him to get dinner because Dean was busy with some girl he'd met at a bar earlier in the day. I figured that meant he was hoping to have sex. I was twelve, I wasn't stupid. Dean's jokes and insinuations and Sam's knowing exasperation were enough for me to fill in the blanks. Sam was sullen and irritable, which made me sullen and irritable. He stabbed at his salad like he had a personal vendetta against it, and I complained about my food because he'd forced me to order grilled chicken instead of the burger I'd wanted.

"You eat too much of that crap; it won't kill you to have something that doesn't come out of a vat of grease," he said when I huffed over the plate of chicken and—worse—broccoli.

"Dean eats way more burgers than I do," I challenged.

"Yeah, and the day Dean lets me order for him off the menu, maybe he'll try something other than a heart attack on a plate, too."

"I didn't _let_ you; you just did it," I pouted.

"Yeah, well, one of the perks of being the big brother is that I get to do stuff like that. Now eat; I want to get back and keep going on the research."

I glared. "I'm not hungry."

"Callie, don't be a brat."

"Don't be a jerk."

Sam took a deep breath and placed his fork neatly beside his plate before fixing me with a stern look. "Okay, I'll bite. What is your problem?" he asked.

"What's yours?"

"Right now it's that you're acting like a spoiled five-year-old and you seem hellbent on pissing me off. And guess what, it's working."

"Oh, like it's so hard to piss you off lately. All you do is bitch at me for everything."

"First of all, watch your mouth. I know you don't talk to Dean that way and it's not gonna fly with me, either. Second … maybe the reason you and I aren't getting along lately is that you're pushing all my buttons all the time. I don't know if it's just a cry for attention or growing pains or you're just trying to make me crazy but whatever it is, can you give it a rest? I'm begging you. Aren't you as sick of this as I am?"

I shoved my plate across the table and folded my arms across my chest stubbornly.

"Dammit, Callie, I'm not doing this with you! Eat, don't eat, I don't care. As soon as I'm done here we're leaving, and if you want to starve till breakfast, knock yourself out."

"Oh, I actually get a choice in something? It's a flipping miracle." I scooted out of the booth and stood up.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, catching my wrist to prevent me from walking away.

"To the bathroom," I said scathingly. "If that's all right with you." As I turned away I saw him running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.

I practically ran to the ladies' room, and was relieved to find it empty. I didn't have to go; I had to get myself together. This stupid petty bickering I was doing with Sam, why couldn't I seem to make it stop? It was like I wanted him to explode, to yell at me, to finally admit that he blamed me as much as I did for Jess's death. Instead of that kind of catharsis, though, I was just managing to drive a wedge between us. I couldn't just be happy to have my brother back because he was only back because his girlfriend was dead, because the life he wanted was shattered, and I had _wished_ for it—if not exactly for those circumstances, then I had wished for him without any regard for what that might mean. And he had to know that, had to hate me for it.

So, no, it wasn't about grilled chicken. It wasn't about him jumping back into my life and trying to call the shots after being away for so long. It was about my desperation for him to absolve me of my guilt, and the only way I knew of to make that happen was to make him angry enough to _admit_ that he was angry. "You wanted me back. Are you happy now?"

And the worst part? Is that I was.

I cupped my hands under the tap and splashed water on my face, then dried it with rough, diner-issue paper towels. And then I noticed the window to my left.

Best way I'd ever known to make my brothers mad was to worry them.

A nearby mop bucket, empty, turned upside-down, placed underneath that window was all it took for me to reach the latch. It pushed up easily enough, the frosted glass pane on the bottom sliding up into the frosted glass pane on top, leaving a large square of nighttime, cold air, an alley adjacent to the front of the diner. I placed both hands on the windowsill and boosted myself up and out. And then, hating myself and knowing that this was stupid, but at the same time ready to push Sam to his limit and face the music so that we could clear the air, I began to walk.

* * *

 **Short chapter, but I have the next part sort of mapped out in my head and wanted to get something down tonight. Strike while the iron is hot, right? Thank you to my reviewers! Jenmm31, irisheyesrita, Happygoddess2003, Howling2themoon, sjwmaw, delacre, and the guests who have left kind words on this story, you really inspire me to keep going.**

 **As far as Callie here, and her mind-set, here's the thing. She is twelve. If you remember being that age (and I sure as hell do, even though it was QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO AND I'M NOT TELLING HOW MANY), you'll remember that sometimes our courses of action were completely at odds with the desired outcome. So my line of thinking here, for Callie is this (and I hope I made it clear in the story): She's happy to have Sam back. It's what she's wanted since he left when she was nine. The problem is that he came back at the expense of Jess, and the destruction of Sam's desired life. Callie now feels (irrationally, but again, she's twelve and yet to learn that the world doesn't revolve around her for good or bad) that her desire to have her brother back CAUSED those things to happen. When she is being honest with herself, she knows that's not exactly right, but the fact that she is still happy to have Sam back clashes with the knowledge that he's grief-stricken, so, GUILT. In her mind, the only way to make amends is to push Sam to open up to her, to make him so angry that he confesses that he blames Callie as much as she blames herself (spoiler: he doesn't).**

 **I hope that makes sense, and that our girl's bratty attitude and not-so-bright choices in this chapter didn't make you like her any less. She's doing her thing. I think it'll work out.**

 **Please review!**


	11. Chapter 11

Once I'd cleared the restaurant and made my way to the other end of the alley, I almost turned around and went back. How many Winchester rules was I breaking right now? I didn't even want to tally them up, but I could hear Dean yelling them at me somewhere in the back of my head. Alone, check. Dark, check. No weapon or phone, check-check. And the doozy: I hadn't told anyone where I was going. They would kill me for just that one even without all the other infractions.

"I'm such an idiot," I groaned aloud, despite my sudden misgivings picking up the pace. There were a few people around, but thick woods bordered the opposite side of the street and I'd grown up fearful of what kinds of awful lurked in dark woods. (Not to mention the potential _human_ monsters, like that guy on the corner who was eyeing me in a way that made me very uncomfortable as I scurried past.)

How long would it take for Sam to realize I was gone, I wondered. Would he kick in the bathroom door after I didn't respond when he knocked and called my name, or would he wait longer, figuring I was just ignoring him because I'm a pain in the ass? Would he see the window I hadn't closed behind me and immediately know what had happened? Or would he be so freaked that his mind would spin into hunter mode, tearing through his mental files on the search for any kind of creature that could be responsible for taking a 12-year-old kid from a public restroom without a trace? Would he call Dean, and would Dean leave his date in the middle of whatever they might be doing ( _ewww!_ ) to come help him look for me?

The more my thoughts whirled, the more anxious I became, and the more convinced of two things: I couldn't go back because _they would kill me._ And I should find some way to let them know I was all right because otherwise, I was just being mean. Struck with sudden insight and with a destination finally in mind, I began to run.

* * *

The motel was just a few blocks away, but I knew Sam, on his gargantuan legs, could get there way faster than I could, so I just had to hope he was far enough behind that I could get this done. He would check here first, thinking I'd just stormed out in a snit and headed back without him. He would be pissed but probably not yet panicked. I had to prevent the panic. The guy lounging in the office was smoking a cigarette and watching a game show on a TV with an actual antenna. He grunted when I asked him for a piece of paper and a pen, and then when he shoved them across the desk to me, I could feel his eyes on me as I scribbled my note.

"Hey, um, could you do me a favor?" I asked.

I assumed the grunt was one of agreement, so I went on.

"Sometime tonight, one or two big guys are going to come in here asking if you've seen me, and I need you to give them this." I handed him the folded-up note and he stared at it as if he'd never seen paper before. "Please?" I added, puzzled. "Oh!" And then I did something I'd seen my big brothers do countless times when they were trying to get information or a favor or a blind eye turned their way. I dug in my pocket and came up with a wad of cash, all that I had, which consisted of maybe seven bucks all told. I pushed a five toward him. Wasn't that a good enough bribe for such a simple task?

He kept staring for a few more moments, then reached out with the hand holding the cigarette and snapped up the money and the note. I'd done the best I could do. I high-tailed it out of there.

Now to find a place to hide and wait it out.

* * *

I'd done my fair share of running away in my time. Of course there was that thing last year when I'd hopped a bus and taken off to visit Sam. Not my finest hour, but at least I had what I thought was a good reason.

But there had been other times. Soon after Sam left, when I was nine and devastated, I tried to run away. They wouldn't sell me a ticket and were about to call my parents when Dean showed up. He wasn't nearly as mad as I'd expected him to be, not that time. He knew how I was feeling because he was feeling it too. I didn't even get in trouble. He didn't even tell Dad.

When I was eight I convinced myself and two girls I'd met at the school I was attending that month that the abandoned shack in the woods at the center of town was haunted. How was I supposed to know it actually was?! We had dodged our pick-ups after school and headed out there to investigate … Dean found us that time, too. It wasn't pretty.

When I was seven I ran away from Bobby's while Dad, Dean, and Sam were off on a hunt. I'd done it because I was angry that they'd left me behind yet again, but I didn't even think about what it would do to poor Bobby. Dad almost killed him for "letting me get away," and they didn't speak for a while after that. When they found me a full day of searching later (I had broken into the elementary school and was playing the most epic game of school EVER), Dad hauled me over his knee right there in an empty second-grade classroom and gave me the spanking of my life—and for once not even Sam tried to intervene.

Age five was the first one I had any memory of, and it was just a little wandering in a park when I was there with Sammy. I remember him sweeping me up into his arms and hugging me so tightly it almost hurt before launching into a Dean-ish tirade about the dangers of going off by myself.

Anyway, all of that to say that my experiences as a habitual runaway had taught me there was a fine line to walk between getting the space and distance (and attention) I was looking for and getting in over my head. If I showed back up while they were still in the initial panic mode, I was dead. If I waited till they'd gotten my note and were at least marginally assured that I was breathing, I might live to see another day. At this point, it was too late to undo it, and part of me didn't want to. Pissing Sam off seemed like a certifiably insane but decently likely way to get to the heart of our problem. Which was, of course, that he secretly hated me for getting Jess killed.

Granted, it was also a surefire way to piss Dean off at the same time, and that was never pleasant and I cringed at the thought of it. But it was a necessary evil, now that I'd put one foot into this mess and found myself ankle-deep.

While taking this little trip down memory lane, I had walked a good long way from the motel, sticking to the shadows and keeping my senses sharp and alert. Once or twice I thought I heard a distant shout that could have been Sam calling my name. I kept going. This really was a nowhere little town. After half an hour or so I was tired of walking and there was nothing to see. Pastures on one side of the road, woods on the other. The only good thing about it was that I would spot a car coming two miles away; I could probably even hear the Impala's engine from farther than that. But it wasn't coming. They weren't looking for me, at least not in this direction, and at least not now. I could let my guard down. For some reason that thought wasn't comforting as I expected it to be. It was just sad.

I guessed they'd taken my note to heart— ** _"Sam & Dean, b back soon. Pls don't look 4 me. Xoxo, Cal."_**

I decided to rest, since this road was taking me nowhere fast, I had no destination in mind anyway, and now, thanks to having to bribe the motel clerk, I had two bucks to my name. I flopped down with my back against a pine tree that marked the vanguard of the deep woods beyond. The bark was rough, the dirt under my butt was damp, and I was feeling hurt and guilty and sad and angry all at the same time. I closed my eyes. "Oh my God, life sucks," I muttered aloud, breathing deeply to try to calm myself.

When I opened my eyes, there was a person standing a few yards away from me. She had long blond hair, a slim figure, but that's all I could tell about her because her face was completely obscured by shadow. I hitched in a breath but didn't scream. I was startled but not afraid, even though every Winchester fiber of my being told me that I probably should be. Her silent approach, the stillness with which she stood, the sudden chill in my bones—

"Callie Winchester."

—the fact that she _knew my name!_

"Who are you?" I asked, trying to sound assertive instead of alarmed. "How do you know my name?"

"I know lots of stuff about you. I know you're not where you should be."

That spooked me, and I drew deeply from my well of Dean Winchester bravado when I answered: "Well no shit, Sherlock; I'm on the side of the road in Podunk, USA, in the middle of the night. Not where _anybody_ should be. Now how about you tell me what _you're_ doing here."

"Your brothers are looking for you right now. They're worried." She peered down the road from the direction I'd come, seeming to be listening for something I couldn't hear. "He'll be here in a few minutes."

I squinted at her. "Are you … what _are_ you?"

"Just a concerned citizen?" There was the trace of a smile in her voice.

"Of where? Hell?"

"No, actually. Not at all."

"What's your name?" I asked, and even as the words left my mouth I knew that was a very odd question. But hey, this was an odd situation.

"Can you do something for me, Callie?"

"I'm not selling my soul, thank you very much," I said firmly. "So you can move along now."

She laughed, and it was a clear, friendly sound, surprising in the dark stillness around us. "I don't want your soul, Callie, you keep that. I want you to stop hurting Sam. You're making things worse for him. I know you think he doesn't notice but he does. He feels your guilt and it makes his own guilt heavier. And he has so much, you wouldn't even believe it. You think he blames you? There's no room in him right now for misguided blame. He's too full of guilt. Please tell him … tell him it wasn't his fault."

"Who are you?"

"It wasn't your fault, either. You're allowed to be happy to have your brother back. That doesn't mean you caused it."

"I don't understand how you can know all these things," I said, my voice hollow in my own ears. Had I fallen asleep? Was this a dream? It didn't feel like a dream.

The girl nodded. "It doesn't matter. Just tell him for me. Please?"

"What makes you think he'd believe me?"

Deep in the night, I felt more than heard a distant, distinctive rumble. Almost like thunder, but not.

"He's on his way," she remarked, looking back down the road again. "Take care of him, all right?"

"But—"

"I have to go now."

"Wait!"

The figure took two steps back from me and disappeared, and I spoke the name into the night even as the Impala's engine grumbled closer and closer.

"… _Jessica?_ "

* * *

 **Hey guys! Thank you for reviewing that last chapter! I have a question for you. If you're inclined to review (and I would love it if you would!) can you please also let me know if you read my other Callie multi-chapter story, "A Simple Kind of Life"? I have a reason for asking. =) Thanks for sticking with me. If the reviews and inspiration keep coming, I'm sure I'll have another chapter up soon!**


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